The Good Templar
by whiteironastrid
Summary: Conrad de Montferrat is most certainly not like his father.
1. 01

This began as a story that was supposed to be about a few hundred words and then snowballed. Anyway, it makes more sense if you make yourself believe William was assassinated before Sibrand. Unless he was already. It's been a while since I played it.

And it's completed already so you can expect the rest of the story, if you liked this chapter that is, very soon. I kind of just want to see how its first chapter or two is/are reviewed. So, if you like it, tell me!

Enjoy!

P.S. I love reviews.

* * *

"And your father," his escort pressed as they walked along the battlements of southern Acre.

"Of little consequence," the charge replied, a cold expression settling on his tanned, European face. "He lived a full enough life, every day of it spent regarding my name with a sneer or a cruel word."

In his anger, the noble began to hasten his pace, and his escort rushed to stay with him. Among them were richly dressed people of Acre, not of denizen blood, nay, but rather the blood of the conquerors.

"Perhaps if he had concentrated on himself and his schemes rather than berating me, he could have properly defended himself against this...'angel of death' my brothers are so concerned with." His voice was halting and dismissive, and certainly not from any physical exertion.

His escort looked down and away, not wanting to remark in any way that would undermine his charge, but clearly felt the need to say something. It took him a few long moments of silence to gather his thoughts into something significant. "My liege... Do not speak of yourself in such a manner. I am sure your father thought the best of you that he was able, given his situation."

The charge halted suddenly and his escort nearly collided with him. He was dangerously silent. The escort stood stiff, uncertain whether he had said the right thing, or perhaps in the right way. Finally, his charge snorted.

"His situation," he began with a quiet chuckle. "Yes, perhaps that was it. The stress of ruling so stifling a city must have gotten the better of him." It was his father's situation that he found himself in almost immediately after arriving in Acre. Cleaning up his father's mess was one thing, but putting his intentions back on the right path and then enforcing them was another thing.

His escort gave him a compassionate sideways glance. "Conrad..." he said, to which he was given an indignant glare. Shrinking away from Conrad's gaze was easy, but recovering from the loss of his respect would not be.

As the two moved into the middle district, the city settled into a calm commotion, and a cool breeze from the sea swept over them. Conrad was silently grateful that they were not downwind from the poor district, where the bodies had been piled and left to rot. The resulting stench was, at most times, overwhelming. The Knights Hospitalier were given the task to clean them up, but were shown no interest as to how or when or _if_ and ultimately put off the grim task for another day.

It was in the middle district where he entertained himself most days. The Teutonic Knights ruled over the land near the sea. They were much more personable than the lofty Hospitalier or the righteous Templars. When he passed them, they fidgeted, slightly intimidated, before the shriek of their master's call pulled them to the surface of a frenzied, unsettled ocean.

At such volume, Sibrand was little more intelligible than one of the late Garnier's patients who roamed the streets.

"_Why are you all just standing around?" _

With a deepening scowl, Conrad realized Sibrand was at the docks, closer than the noble would have preferred. Instead of turning back, however, he stood and watched as the Meister gradually lost his demeanor and slipped into a panic.

_"If none of you can handle this task, I will do it myself!" _he was screaming, shoving aside the dock workers. With surprising strength that belied his slender build, Sibrand picked up and threw each crate into a small boat moored to the dock. The workers nearby lingered awkwardly and wrung their hands, anticipating another verbal blow once the Master had gone through his motions.

At last, he had finished piling the crates haphazardly into the boat, and was still for a moment with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. All at once, he remembered himself, and whirled around, stomping down the dock with purpose and a look that was borderline terror.

Conrad looked about himself with the facade of someone who was admiring the scenery, hiding the fact that he was truly looking for a way out that would not attract the Master's attention; he had no desire to discuss things such as the voices that Sibrand hears, but others do not.

This time, however, he had been too slow to avoid it.

Sibrand's voice, piercing and paranoid, marked him as a target. Even as Conrad turned his back, the Teutonic Master shouted to his knights.

"Show your respect to the Siege Lord!" When his knights merely looked at one another uneasily, his voice rose again. "_KNEEL!"_

They did so quickly, half-falling to their knees. Before turning to face them, Conrad forced himself to draw in a deep breath, only letting it out once he addressed the Meister. "Sibrand," he began with a false smile. "I..." What he had intended to say fell into nothingness. Usually so articulate, he found himself unsure how to speak to the man before him. After a few awkward moments and a glance from his escort, he decided to speak from his heart.

"Sibrand," he began again, this time with a derisive smile and a small sigh, "News of your activities has reached even my ears so soon. Though with your constant screaming, it comes not as much as a surprise."

The Meister swallowed but, thankfully, chose to remain quiet.

"None more than I understand your concerns, your worries about safety," Conrad said. Sibrand flinched. "But you must restrain yourself from publicly executing anyone sporting the color white, my friend."

"My liege. Th-the _assassin. _He has already taken two of ours here in Acre and countless more in lands abroad." Sibrand practically shook. Conrad was not only confronting his zealotry, but his liege may also threaten his station as Grand Master. That was a possibility Sibrand refused to accept.

Conrad folded his arms, unconvinced.

"He comes dressed in white, like a ghost," he said with wild gestures. "I had no choice."

The Regent Lord tilted his head incredulously.

Sibrand fidgeted nervously, his eyes darting to the shadows once he had reminded himself of the assassin, the very subject of his notorious paranoia.

When silence followed, Conrad merely looked to his boots and sighed. This man – this child – was the Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights. If this was not proof that their masters were truly in control of their fates, little else would.

Conrad then brought his hand to his temple. "Sibrand... The...assassin-" he gave the Master a patronizing gesture, "-would most likely keep to the shadows, right? So as to best catch you unaware. I do not think he would walk the streets openly," he said, his voice rising in anger he barely cared to restrain, "_as scholars do!"_

At this point, the Teutonic Knights kneeling nearby raised their bowed heads and watched carefully. They watched Conrad.

"Liege..." Sibrand was trembling with an emotion Conrad could not place. It was not fear, not yet. It could not have been anger, unless the Teutonic Master was more arrogant than the Regent Lord had thought.

"Stay your blade and cease making a fool of yourself, Sibrand." Before the Master had a chance to react, the Regent Lord turned and stalked away as quickly as a modest pace would allow. He returned his demeanor to that of a noble, of a liege lord, of a leader, forgetting his anger just a few moments ago.

His escort, however, looked over his shoulder. Sibrand stood, mouth agape, and remained still until he caught eyes with the escort. Knowing he had been caught stupefied, he scowled and gestured angrily to his knights, who rose once again and assumed their stations.

"Keep your eyes ahead, Garrick," a voice like steel pulled the escort from his wandering eyes, "Lest you trip."

Conrad de Montferrat withdrew into the battlements for the remainder of the week, sitting within the dimly-lit chamber that was once his father's for two nights in a row. The letter on his desk bore grim news. In the moments that followed his attendant's delivery, he merely stared at the slightly crumpled parchment, sealed with red ink and inlaid with the seal of his masters.

Once opened, he found it a fascinating read. It seemed after Conrad's departure from the docks, Sibrand, paranoid and precautionary as he always was, was taken by the infamous assassin that stalked the streets of Acre. The guards found him laid out on the deck of his ship, still warm and bleeding from a puncture wound in his neck.

The letter was sent promptly, summarizing the discovery in a manner that, surprisingly to him, unnerved him slightly. The Teutonic Master would receive a proper burial, but if the tone of the letter was any indication, there would be as much emotional consideration in his earthy departure as had been given to the scholar he killed in cold blood and pushed into the sea. A pity, really. Sibrand may have been strict, loud, and crazy, but he was a loyal and effective man. More than that, even, he was in charge of the blockade to keep out the armies of outsiders as the Templars protected the holy land. Granted, the man also spent valuable resources fortifying his district against attempts at his life. It was a gesture that, in the end, proved ineffective. Perhaps with his end, those resources could go towards more productive investments.

There was but another piece of the letter that both intrigued and unsettled him. Near the end, in which the writer, anonymous, wrote that he feared... _You may be next._

_ A ridiculous claim,_ he thought with a smirk. However, alone in his study, he found himself glancing at the shadows. With a sincere frown, he looked back down at the letter, then at his folded hands in his lap. Doubt was something he was used to, but this... This was different.

Why was it so ridiculous?

Conrad pulled a candle towards him on the desk, picked up the letter, and burned it swiftly. When it was done, he put a hand over his eyes and fought back the urge to call in his attendant.

William's son was not a fool, nor a failure. He was not a conqueror either, and not quite the leader his father was, but even kings had advisers. Garrick, to him, was the closest thing he had to a friend who was not bound by political pretenses. It was refreshing.

However, now was not the time for comfort. What he needed at this moment was clarity.


	2. 02

The night was cool with the wind dragging from the sea as the ruler made his way through the rich district. Before leaving the relative safety of the battlements, Conrad had donned his armor, a glimmering silver, and his cloak, a rich blue. As it began to rain, he was grateful to have remembered his heavy boots.

He was alone. Garrick need not know where he went this night. In fact, Conrad had determined it would be best if his attendant remained ignorant, at least for the night.

His destination loomed in the distance. What was once a symbol of hope for himself and, indeed, many of the citizens of Acre, had become a great lonely spire in his mind and what he hoped would not be where he spent his last stand. Time would tell, as with all things.

He stopped and looked up. The Cathedral was beautiful, he could not deny that fact, but he could certainly remain confident that not all beautiful things are kind. Every rose had its thorns.

Feeling anxious, Conrad lingered outside of the Cathedral for several cold moments, until his face was drenched and his cloak nearly soaked through. He was not certain about who he was meeting and he refused to be optimistic, only speculative. As confused as he already was, he was not about to get his hopes up only to be crushed by reality.

Conrad drew upon the facade he wore when speaking to anyone who, honestly, was not Garrick. In the company of monarchs, a servant of the crown; of knights and acolytes, their master; of even Templar and Sibrand, both equal and superior at once. It was not a face he was unfamiliar with, but only of late was he ever more doubtful about its effectiveness.

With a deep breath, he scaled the steps of the church and pushed against one of its heavy doors. In the dim light, a figure at the end of the carpeted hall turned at the sound of his creaking entrance.

He stopped and let the door fall back behind him. He was not yet ready to be received. With practice, suspicion could be weaved artfully into the demeanor of a nobleman open to negotiation. Conrad had plenty of practice.

"Welcome, brother," the robed figure greeted with open arms. Conrad did not take the gesture as welcoming and he did not respond except to take a few steps forward.

"Why the apprehension?" he asked.

Conrad noted with a bit of unease that the figure's hood was drawn and he made no indication that he would remove it. "The letter," he said, "is all I am here to discuss."

Though the robe concealed the figure, Conrad still noticed how he flinched aggressively, his demeanor changing dramatically. "You, boy, would do well to speak to me with more respect. I _am not _one of your insolent lackeys."

The Regent Lord was unprepared for the fear that such chilling words elicited. He barely recovered in time to respond. "Who are you?" Judging from the robed man's commanding voice, he was more than likely someone who preferred not to be questioned. Conrad knew his question was a dangerous one, and his voice shook traitorously.

The man seemed to eye him up and down, his hood tilting ever so slightly with his face still concealed in shadow. "So unlike your father, Conrad," he said, "he always knew when not to ask questions."

Conrad tensed, the muscles in his neck strained with his ever-deepening scowl. He was suddenly aware of every joint stiff from the cold, especially in his jaw, which he clenched so tightly now. His skin prickled with the freezing rain water that had left his clothes all but drenched.

"You are not like your father, and perhaps that is for the best," the man said calmly. "My name remains my own, but for your candor, and your bravery in venturing to me alone, I may give you the information that you seek."

"That I _need_..." Conrad corrected, letting the rest of his sentence drop, unsure of how to address this man. "I have only just arrived in the city and suddenly my men are dropping like flies to this assassin-" the robed man cocked his head, and Conrad held up a preemptive hand, "-and not just Sibrand. From all over the holy land I have heard the news, and it distresses me."

Still, the mysterious man cocked his head. "Had your father told you nothing?"

At first Conrad fell silent, lost in the meaning of those words. "Any words my father said to me were distant and spiteful. I want to know what he lacked the conviction to tell me."

"As you are right to want."

"Then tell me." Conrad took a step forward, his hands held outwards imploringly.

A few moments passed in silence before the hooded figure moved again. He turned back to the alter, at the foot of which he was standing, and began to light candles as his visitor waited.

"You are one of them, then? The ones I hear spoken of by my men when they think they are alone, the names Sibrand prayed to instead of the Heavens and God as I would otherwise expect him to."

The figure stopped abruptly in his activities, placing a candle down and the match along with it. "So unlike your father."

"The Templars watch over you, boy, in a way no God can. We asses your abilities as a leader, as a man of our new world, as an enlightened individual. We have watched you and found you worthy, perhaps more worthy than your father."

Conrad stood idle still.

"William de Montferrat was deceptive above all other things. To the King, of which we hold no partisanship, he was a sheepish jester, partner to him in a dance of fools and we soon found he, your father, became blind.

"What we had assumed to be blind loyalty to the cause we eventually grew unwary of. It seemed he became more enamored with the thought of insulting Richard further than making better the world we live in. We could not trust him after a time, and a great relief passed through our ranks as word of his untimely death reached us, despite losing a powerful and effective ally."

"And then came his son," Conrad said. "Who, by all appearances, was the same as the man whose death you celebrated. Who would eventually become another obstacle in the Templars' path, despite the strides he made to help them."

"No, no. You misunderstand," said the figure. "You were instated by the King, yes, with whom we must reluctantly work in order to achieve our greater goal, but we were optimistic. From the beginning you were quiet, but not at all distracted. You were secretive until moments presented themselves to you and you displayed your authority with enough restraint to retain the whole-hearted respect of your men, not simply their fear.

"We watched as you reprimanded Sibrand for his paranoia, his zealotry. We agreed with your actions, your words. In a time such as this, Sibrand was as much a burden as he was an ally."

Conrad clenched his fists. "So his death, like my father's, was a relief. To whom? The Templars?"

"A war rages in the holy land for more than the Kings of man would have you believe." The figure's tone had taken a dangerous edge. "We will remake the world into a land of peace and conformity. A world without violence, but one can only achieve such an impossibility with the artifact that was stolen from some time ago. Do you recall?"

Conrad did. His mind raced back to that moment that he had overheard his Templar Knights. "And Robert de Sable?"

The hooded figure shrugged. "As ambitious as ever. Given enough time and he may retrieve the Apple, but we fear he may be next to die by the assassin's blade. He... Or you."

The letter Conrad received the day before tempered his fear of the unknown, so the figure's words, crafted carefully to frighten the Siege Lord, lacked impact. "So, it was you who sent me the note."

Very briefly, in the light of the candles, Conrad saw a wry smile emerge from underneath the hood. "You are quick," he said. "Yes, it was I, or rather, one of us. A warning, to our protegé, although it hardly seems you need the assistance."

"You flatter me, truly. I can take care of myself," he said bitterly. "But flattery is not what I came here for. What is this new world you mentioned earlier? And you said worthy, I was worthy. Of what?"

"It is just as I said. A world without violence, a world of peace and coexistence. Of unity and-"

"Conformity," Conrad snapped, too late to bite his own tongue. With nothing else to lose, he continued. "Through control? With this... Apple?" He tried to feign curiosity.

The figure stood still, staring down at the Siege Lord behind the shadow of his hood. Conrad was certain he had crossed the line, until...

"Worthy, is what we called you, worthy of this new world because what drives you is not blind loyalty, but understanding, enlightenment. One only gains understanding through questions and curiosity. This is what your father lacked." The figure waved his hand dismissively. "The New World requires control, because mankind will never come to complete peace without influence or supervision, and we are the only ones with the resources, vigilance, and moral clarity to be the Gods, if you will, of the New World."

All at once, Conrad understood what his subjects had been speaking about and the fear that plagued the Templars' prisoners deeper than the fear of death or torture. The fear of slavery and control.

What his father had been a part of and worked towards, this New World; the starvation of his people, the piles of bodies in Acre, and the poverty that ran rampant in the streets. It was all part of the bigger plan, the grand scheme. Control, utter and complete control, and this man standing before him was an orchestrator, evidently one of many.

"Nothing to say?" the figure asked.

Conrad flinched. "Simply... A lot to take in at once." A lie to hide his apprehension. The Siege Lord was wracked with an unease that strangled his heart and forced it to the pit of his stomach.

"Mmm." The robed figure seemed to accept it, but Conrad felt an urgency to leave grip him and refuse to let go. He felt sick.

There was still a great distance between them, but Conrad felt that as he slowly retreated, the figure could reach out and grab him at any moment. "With this information, I must take my leave and prepare for the assassin."

"Do you feel well? You look ill."

Conrad cursed himself for letting his facade fall so easily, and hastened to find an excuse for his sudden trepidation. "I am well," he assured. "I have... Much to consider." In a final act of deceit, much like his father, he bowed his head and slightly bowed his body. "The New World will flourish under rule such as yours, and I am honored to serve the cause."

The robed figure nodded his head once and turned back to the candles, dismissing the Siege Lord without so much as a word.

Outside the chapel, Conrad went without his hood and turned his face up to the sky. It still rained; he had not spent much time in the cathedral. Fear paralyzed him for a moment, and he felt as though he was being watched. It would do no good to run, to break down near midnight in the middle of Acre.

With significant effort, he forced himself into a slow pace, towards the battlements once more, to inform Garrick of the assassin, to think about his situation and to decide how he should proceed.


	3. 03

The battlements were quiet, too quiet for Conrad's comfort. His knights were sparse and disconnected. The shadows loomed farther than they usually did.

Anger flared within Conrad's chest like a small fire. "This is _my _city," he growled. Why was he afraid of the shadows cast by his own battlements? He would _not _be intimidated by idealistic madmen _or _an assassin.

"_Guards!_" he shouted. He kept shouting until they showed themselves, slowly slinking from the towers, the board rooms, the hidden patrol routes, until every last one of them surrounded him in an unorganized circle. "With the death of the Grand Master, the assassin is still loose in the streets of Acre," he said. His men shifted uneasily. "Double the patrols, around the clock, and no one walks alone."

A murmur of agreement passed through his men, so Conrad nodded and turned to leave, his men parting to let him through the throng.

As he made his way to his quarters, a familiar face, flushed with exhaustion, rushed to meet him. "Conra- Er, Siege Lord, I heard you shouting and-"

"Come with me, Garrick, and make haste." Conrad spoke without stopping, but Garrick had no trouble keeping up with him, despite his nervous eye-rubbing. And hidden behind Conrad's portrayal of authority and fast pace, he was shaking uncontrollably.

Behind a locked door, Conrad de Montferrat and his attendant, Garrick, spoke in hushed tones about the conspiracy Conrad had been accepted into and that, despite the Siege Lord's loyalty to the Knights Templar, as much as the Knights Teutonic and Hospitalier, his doubts were creeping in.

Conrad revealed to his attendant the conversation he had that night, omitting of course where the conversation had taken place and with whom. Interestingly, Garrick seemed less surprised than Conrad had expected.

"If I were to denounce the Templar Order, I may as well run myself through with my own sword." Conrad lied on his bed, his feet and calves hanging over the edge, staring at the ceiling. In this respect, he felt more like a budding teenager with a romantic dilemma than the Lord of Acre in the midst of a plot he wanted no part of.

Garrick sat against the wall adjacent to the open window, his eyes scanning the darkness. He looked at Conrad aghast. "Impossible. The Knights Templar and King Richard are closely allied."

Recalling his earlier conversation with the hooded Templar, Conrad scoffed.

"You cannot denounce them and remain Siege Lord, or alive. You must escape the holy land and evade the knights of the Templars and the King, or _ally_ yourself with the enemy."

Conrad bolted upright. "The assassin," he whispered sharply. He turned to Garrick. "If I were to get a chance to speak to the assassin, perhaps he would spare me and allow me asylum in his own Order."

"Are you mad?" Garrick's eyes were drawn in with concern. "He will hunt you down as well, for being William's son, for having any connections to the Knights Templar. How will you stop him?"

"By sending him a message..." The Siege Lord pressed a fist against his lips, thinking. With a groan, Garrick stood and leaned out the window, sweeping his eyes over the battlements, now buzzing with armored guards.

A yawn came from the bed. Garrick turned to see the Siege Lord stretch and fall back against the padding of his mattress. "I have not slept in too long," he mumbled. "If I'm to speak to the assassin of the holy lands, I should be well-rested. Stand guard, Garrick, and alert me when morning has come."

"Yes, my liege."

* * *

Conrad's dreams were plagued by symbols, hooded figures, the faces of men without eyes and mouths twisted in grotesque expressions. He must have been tossing in his sleep, murmuring in discomfort, but he was shaken awake not because of his nightly habits.

"Conrad, Conrad!" Garrick's voice broke through the eerie haze of his nightmare-haunted sleep. "Wake up, please!"

"Garrick," his voice, like grinding stones, snapped at the hands shaking him furiously. "What is it? What are you-"

The shaking ceased, and Garrick was at the window. "The battlements have been breached. All the guards lay dead in the courtyard."

Conrad grew warm, an instinctual fear settling in his body. "The assassin has come for me."

Garrick shook his head quickly. "Not he, but others of the same flock. Look," he pointed. The Siege Lord jumped from his bed and moved to the window. "Two of them are among the dead below, and our assassin hunts alone."

The early morning sunlight, just breaking dawn, lightly illuminated the pale, waxing bodies of the dead. The white robes were stained red, as were his mens' armor. Conrad's knuckles whitened as he clutched the window's border, uncertain how to act. "And he would not change his tactics for my sake, but... Why?"

"No," Garrick interrupted, leaning farther out the window and seeing something down below with interest, "Look, Liege-" in the tense situation, Garrick had reverted back to his subservient attitude,"-one remains. As do several of the knights."

A harsh knock at the door startled them both, and they gave each other a look before straightening up. Conrad was usually awake earlier than sunrise, an indication of organization and discipline. Today he would show no different, despite his heart that beat like a hammer in his chest.

A guard rushed in, haggard and slightly bloodied. "My Lord, a situation that requires your immediate attention on the grounds," he gasped.

Conrad, in a fit of mock authority and nervous impatience, shoved the guard away with an open palm. "Enough," he snapped, and walked along, Garrick in tow.

In the courtyard, they were met with an unnerving sight.

Held tight by his elbows, the assassin hung limp until his knees nearly touched the ground, his covered head held low, blood slowly dripping from his chin. The sound of Conrad approaching caught his attention, and he lifted his head slowly, glaring daggers through his remaining eye.

The Siege Lord stalked past his fallen knights, stepping over the bodies of his men until he stopped in front of the broken killer. "Assassin..." He drew out the word as though he greeted a social nemesis. Sparing a moment's glance, it chagrined him deeply to see the knight that stood paces away, sporting the Templar's red cross on his silver armor.

The assassin stared for a moment longer, then turned his head and spat blood. Conrad tilted his head. It was odd that the assassin did not aim for his feet.

"Dog," the assassin replied in like, with the same drawn-out curt tone, which earned him a rough shake from his holder. He recovered with a grunt and shook back the hood of his robes, revealing a shaved head and an alarmingly stoic dark face. His right eye had suffered the ragged drag of a blade and bled profusely, but still he stared. Conrad was almost impressed.

Conrad took a few steps back, until he reached the corpse of another assassin, and noticed the stoic face of the captured man tense furiously, because with the toe of his boot, Conrad prodded the body. "Why have you come to my home at such an unreasonable hour, hm?"

"The best time to catch you unaware," the assassin growled.

"Is that it, then?" Conrad shrugged indifferently and knelt down. He reached out and tore the robes apart from the body of the assassin, checking in the creases and exposing his face, then went through the bags he wore at the waist. Finally, he pulled out a folded parchment. "And this? Is this meant for me?"

The assassin cursed under his breath and looked away. With a smile, Conrad began to unfold the note, when he noticed the assassin watching him nervously.

"Wait," the assassin snapped, his face a humbling combination of panic and anger. Conrad handed the note to Garrick and moved back towards the prisoner. "Wait... Our master... Had a message for you, most venerable Siege Lord. When your men attacked us, poor messengers, simply."

Conrad smirked curiously.

"The message... In that letter... Is of Robert de Sable's death. And you..." He trailed off and looked to the ground for a long moment, swallowing hard, and then looked back up, his confidence reconfirmed. "You are next, Templar dog."

"How dare you-" A knight moved in from the side, his short sword drawn and brought back to swing, aimed at the assassin's neck. The assassin flinched, but never met his end. Conrad parried the attack forcefully with his own weapon, drawn out at the last second, and pushing the knight back a few steps. "My Lord! He said-"

"I have ears," Conrad said, "I heard what he said." He pointed the blade at the assassin's neck, pricking it ever so slightly. Then, once a fine line of blood had begun to stain the front of the assassin's robe, Conrad sheathed his blade and knelt down to the man's eye level. He lowered his voice, so that hopefully only he and the killer would hear his words. "Go back to your home in the mountains. Tell your master I await his arrival, and he should look towards the cathedral when the sun sets. Tell him of my mercy towards you and of my free will. Perhaps," Conrad stood and surveyed his men; by the vacant looks of them, they had not heard a word, "Your master will understand."

The assassin narrowed his eyes in suspicion, and then, slowly, revelation. Before he had a chance to discover too much, Conrad balled his gauntlet into a fist and took a swing at the assassin, striking him just above the jaw. His head snapped to the side, hung for a moment, and then he fell in a heap, his arms released from the grip of the guards, crumpling to the ground.

In hindsight, Conrad hoped the blow to the head would not affect the assassin's memory.

To his men, he said: "Cover him and take him to the outskirts, let him wake up and return to his fortress on his own. We will send a message to their master."

One knight picked up the assassin, swinging him over his shoulder like a sack of flour, and five more surrounded him, moving in to escort. "Do not harm him on the way," Conrad added, his voice lowered threateningly.

Garrick had moved to his side, the note clutched in both his hands. The Templar knight that had, moments ago, stood only paces away, had altogether disappeared from sight. Conrad shuddered, and Garrick pressed the note into his hand. "My Liege, what did you tell him?"

Immediately deciding to let his friend remain further ignorant, Conrad chose to stay silent as he unfolded the note. In it, the information relayed was just as the assassin had said. "Robert de Sable is dead."

"Just what the assassin told you."

"But when did it happen? Sibrand's demise was only-" he closed his eyes, the lack of sleep finally affecting his concentration, "-a few nights ago?" He placed his fingers over his temple. "This assassin works quickly. Perhaps I should have asked the survivor."

"No harm done, my Liege. Perhaps you should rest, you have not gotten much since returning from the cathedral last night." He slapped a hand over his own mouth.

The Siege Lord gazed sternly at his attendant, a mixture of irritation and amusement pulling his lips up into a smirk. "Did you follow me?"

Slowly stripping his hand away, Garrick rolled his eyes pensively. "Only until I knew where you were headed, and then I waited and followed you back to the battlements, slipping into the shadows in time to hear you screaming like a madman for the guards."

Conrad gave a thoughtful _tsk_ and slipped the note into his pocket. He was usually so very cautious, and even more so after he left the cathedral. How Garrick could have followed him to and from over such a space in the dead of night was surprising, but there was no other way the attendant could have guessed where he was.

"The nights in Acre are dangerous. You shouldn't wander alone." Garrick added after the silence, hoping to amend the situation.

"Garrick."

His voice was sharp, halting. Garrick feared he had behaved in an irreparable way, though he hardly feared punishment; it was the loss of trust in his charge, his friend, that he truly feared. He said nothing as he waited for Conrad to speak again.

That fear the Siege Lord felt the moment he left the cathedral seized him again as a memory. He recalled how difficult it was to move afterward, to move alone through the streets, his developing paranoia gripping him like a vice. Though he would not admit it outright, discovering that the eyes he felt on him last night were the eyes of a guardian relieved him in an indescribable way.

So, simply, "Thank you," said the Siege Lord.


	4. 04

The sun was setting over Acre, casting a red glow over the sea, and the towers of the battlements gleamed magnificently. Citizens, most of them, began to retreat back into their homes for the night, shuffling along innocently.

Conrad de Montferrat felt his namesake abandon him. All his father had stood for, his son prepared to set ablaze once the bells tolled for sunset. It was not an easy decision to come to.

In the meantime, he sat atop the roof of the cathedral. In the spirit of resourcefulness, the Siege Lord had climbed up scaffolding and the pitted outer walls of the building until he reached the archers' balcony. The archers had received orders from him to concern themselves elsewhere at nights, closer to the ground and certainly far from where he was. A painfully obvious tactic, a plot most unfitting for a man of his station, but he was feeling uncharacteristically reckless. Desperate, almost.

He was certain that, this time, he was not followed. The moment before he left the battlements, he had absolutely forbidden Garrick from pursuing him again. It was an oddly pleasant sensation, the feeling of being alone. He even had to admit that he envied the assassins; their freedom allowed them to find solitude if they wanted, to reach the highest places without fear, to move without necessarily being seen. Although Conrad was alone, atop the cathedral, it was only due to the fact that he had driven any possible opposition away from him.

Bundled in a thick cloak, he sat underneath a Templar flag, on the edge of the roof, and gazed down at his people. A dull anger welled within him, thinking of his father and his zealous treatment towards his people, and of the Templar who may or may not have still resided in the cathedral, who spoke of control and utter Templar supremacy. That was a world that Conrad wanted no part of and, had he the ability to do so, would do everything in his power to fight against.

He pulled the cloak around his shoulders tighter as a cool breeze passed, and he gazed down at his people. Dark intuition hovered over him as he scanned the crowds for white robes or silvered armor. There was only one man whom Conrad wanted to witness his act.

The night came, and the Siege Lord stilled. The streets emptied. A chill ran down his spine. He was being watched.

_Perfect._

With a flick of his hand, the instruments he brought along with him flared to life, and the flag fluttering above his head ignited brilliantly. It spread quickly, reaching the pole in moments, making the flag lighter than air for a second, then swaying with the wind in a chaotic, inflamed struggle to stay aloft as the fire began to weigh it down.

Still, Conrad sat and smiled lightly. The Siege Lord and his burning effigy for enemies most cunning. The reaction was delayed, as he had hoped. He sat beneath the blazing flag, crackling as the red and white cloth chipped away from its holding. There were no worried shouts or frantic movement. Not yet.

A bold statement he was making. The moment he decided he was going to go through with his plan, he realized he was cutting off his own nose to spite his face. He needed to oppose the Templar, that much was true, but to do it in such a noticeable manner, he would certainly die because of his audacity, leaving him in no state to battle against them again.

Slowly, his deed was noticed. A lone guard shouted and pointed to Conrad from the streets. Conrad was not worried; the robe kept his form obscure and he was well able to escape in time.

"Fire! Fire on the cathedral!" someone cried. A Templar knight emerged and swore loudly in a language Conrad was not entirely familiar with. He took that as his cue.

He slowly moved out from under the flag, crossed the roof with nervous, but confident footing, and ran to the edge of the top tier. Grabbing the edge, the swung off the top tier and dropped onto the archers' balcony. The shadows drew him in, allowing him time to work his way down from the balcony, using pits in the wall and jutting stones to reach the street. The shouts of the Templar Knight, still barely intelligible, were louder, closer, and then the Siege Lord became worried.

His hands shook as he did his best to climb down safely, but he was finding it harder to grip what little space the wall would give. Inevitably, he fell.

He met the ground on his side, sustaining most of the damage from the fall in his shoulder and hip, making it a painful endeavor to push himself to his feet, and even more agonizing to break into a run.

The route back to the battlements rushed by him in a blur. And, thank the Lord, he could no longer hear the enraged knight.

* * *

Having already prepared an excuse for his stiffness and strained movement, but not at all prepared yet to use it, he hid from his men as they moved from the battlements. They seemed to be following the shouts of "Assassin!" coming from the cathedral.

As he was about to emerge from the shadows to slink his way back into his quarters, a faint, almost indistinguishable figure caught his eye near the gate. He was robed, but too small to be the man from the cathedral. The figure turned, looking all around him, and then stopped in the direction of the Siege Lord.

Conrad found himself too stiff to retreat. In his wounded, tired state he closed his eyes against the threat, only hoping it was not the Templar Knight returned to redeem his broken dignity. Instead, a heavier cloak fell over his shoulders.

"My Liege, you should be more careful."

Pressure on his bruised shoulder sent a wave of warmth along the rest of his arm, but it triggered the waning strength in his legs to give completely. As he slid down along the wall next to the massive gates, gently assisted by a hooded Garrick, he watched as the small fire he began by igniting the flag raged along the cross that topped the cathedral. It was a sight both horrific and splendid.

Garrick sat down next to him with a heavy clang. His cloak shifted to reveal Conrad's blade, taken from its stand in his quarters. "A bit much, would you agree?"

"Yes," he said flatly. "A message, turned into heresy. I have literally set the house of God on fire." He put his head in his hands. "A grave underestimation."

Garrick observed the Siege Lord and his limp right side for a long moment. "Did you fall?"

"I did. One of the Templar's Knights was skulking around the cathedral. I sent the archers away for the night."

"You refused to tell me where you were going and what you were doing when you left, and now you openly confess to me what you have done to cause so much uproar. Never before have you been so indecisive."

"I have acted brashly out of indignation and faulted out of fear. It may be too late to fix this, but I cannot stop at this point."

"Do you see the fires? You need to desist."

Conrad shifted positions with a hiss, putting most of his weight against his left hip. "The fires are exactly why I cannot," he said, gesturing to the distance. "I have gone too far."

They sat in silence, watching as footmen ran about, chaotic, and as the cathedral continued to burn. They could not see the area around the cathedral from where they sat, but they could see its relentless destruction clearly. Fortunately, the two were hidden in the shadows cast by the high walls of the battlements. Conrad's men, still streaming past them, would not hesitate to notice their Siege Lord huddled injured so near to them, but notice was the last thing Conrad desired.

It had been several minutes since Conrad had closed his eyes and let his head fall back, utterly exhausted. He felt cool moisture hit his face; it gradually turned into a downpour. Garrick laughed from his side.

"It appears the Good Lord has found himself in a forgiving, helpful mood."

"Garrick," he snapped, grasping the wall behind him in the process of awkwardly pushing himself up.

Garrick, reflexively, rushed to aid him.

"Disregard the men, I need to lie down. Help me to my quarters."

* * *

The wind howled past Conrad's window as he sat on his bed and forsook sleep for thought. He thought of how foolish he had been, thinking he could take on the Templars himself, so soon. Brutish tactics and uncoordinated methods was no way to win a battle, that he should know, but pure desperation drove him to forget all he was taught in his adolescent years and act on instinct. His oddly misguided instinct. No wonder his father thought him a failure.

In his hands he held a letter from his beloved, Isabella, whom he had left to oversee Acre. She was pregnant. His recklessness then seemed even more atrocious. By making himself an enemy of the Templars, he put not only himself at risk, but also Isabella and their child. She lived away, comfortably afar, but she was nowhere near any sanctuary. It had already been made clear to Conrad that the Templars cared little for the laws of the King.

The scent of smoke drifted in through his window, more strongly than the previous hour, meaning the fire had finally been extinguished. Conrad wondered if all the hardship had been in vain or if the assassin had seen his message.

The letter from Isabella disintegrated in the flame of a candle. Conrad brushed away the ashes and forced himself to lie down and relax for a moment. Inside, a dull anger still boiled. Acre was _his_ city, damn it. Not the Templars', despite what they wanted to believe.

He brushed a lock of dark hair out of his eyes; hair like his father's, but kept long, traditional, and not cut short along the sides as if he were one of Richard's footmen. In the few weeks he had been in Acre acting in his father's place, his appearance had grown progressively more disheveled. His hair longer than necessary, his stubble ignored, dark circles under his eyes. If anyone judged him for it, they did not do so publicly.

Bringing himself back to his original dilemma, there was one thought he would rather fall asleep not hearing inside his own head. So, he simply turned his head and stared into the shadows of his quarters, too exhausted to feel anxious, his shoulder and hip throbbing too much too acknowledge his fears.

His closed his dark eyes and drifted off to sleep, dreaming of luck and mercy.


	5. 05

In the morning Conrad received a summons from his masters, if the seal was of any indication. He felt the fear he escaped the night before return to him ten-fold. His hands shook, ever so slightly, as he held the parchment at waist length with Garrick reading over his shoulder.

Garrick finished before him, as it took the Siege Lord twice as long to read between the carefully crafted lines of diplomacy, where suspicion and peril lurk beneath. The easterner stood by the door, his hands clasped behind his back patiently.

"No..." Conrad mumbled. Garrick tilted his head curiously.

"No," he repeated, "No, they suspect the assassins. They wish to see me for other reasons, or at least, reasons other than myself."

"Are you sure?"

The Siege Lord crumpled the letter and tossed it to the floor carelessly. "Never, but refusing them is an option I do not have."

"When did they request you?"

"Later, midday," Conrad sighed, bringing a tabard from a chest and lifting it, letting the red and white cloth unfurl to reveal the Templar cross. "What a dark day it is."

The sun was high, midday was close. The cathedral would take him an hour to walk to, two hours if he hesitated and moved slowly. He would bring escorts to the doors. His own men. No Templars, no Garrick. "I go alone," he said.

Garrick lowered his head respectively, though the disappointment showed clear on his face. "What a terrible idea," he said, "but I respect it. And you should leave. Soon."

Conrad had already donned the armor, cloak, and demeanor of his station and became the Siege Lord once again, hiding his injuries and his doubt, perhaps even subconsciously mimicking the assassin he both feared and sought so feverishly.

Dread bloomed anew deep within him, now quite the familiar feeling. The timing of the Templars' letter was alarming and unsettling, but he could not ignore their summons. Perhaps he was walking into a trap, perhaps not.

_Only time will tell. _Conrad shrugged into his tabard and left his quarters, his worried attendant following him to just the edge of the battlements. Four lavish knights surrounded their Siege Lord, and they solemnly stalked into the city, headed towards the den of wolves.

* * *

The path they took, who they saw, and how long it took them to reach the cathedral was lost to him. Who met them at the cathedral, how long it had been since he walked through its heavy doors, what events took place after his escorts were left standing on the steps was lost to him.

He gained consciousness in a dimly lit room, his head spinning, his knees against the stone floor. Someone held him secure by his neck from behind, someone towered over him, and several more stood around them. An unbearable agony rippled through his chest with every breath he took. His face, however, was surprisingly left unharmed.

The only constant being the thought of how wrong he had been repeating itself over and over in his muddled head.

"Did you think us fools?" the figure that towered over him whispered. His hood was drawn and his voice, although altered by volume and tangible rage, was of the one to whom Conrad had gone about the letter.

He let out a strained cough, but could not speak more than a few words at a time. "Master..." he said, addressing the mysterious figure in a way he assumed would befit him. There was little doubt to who he _could_ be, if not a Templar Master.

"Our knight saw someone fall clumsily from the roof, running from our burning flag." Abruptly, the Master took a step forward and grabbed the Siege Lord by his collar, jerking him in a manner that conflicted with the hold on his neck. The Master's other hand shot from his robes, clutched Conrad's bruised shoulder, and twisted it with such pressure it nearly made the Siege Lord vomit. He coiled away, any illusion of innocence dissolving with his betraying wound.

Conrad winced further as the Master leaned down close, his spiced breath washing over him in a terrible wave as he spoke. "Do you have any words with which to explain your treachery? And why we now sit beneath a charred roof?"

A knight fidgeted in the background. He was the same knight who stood by when the assassin was caught and the same knight who pursued him after the Templar flag was set ablaze. Conrad realized with frustration that he had been followed for days, most likely since he ever so slightly exposed his true feelings to this hooded figure in the cathedral some nights ago.

Conrad, instead of answering, looked away ashamedly. There _was_ no explaining his way out of the situation he found himself in, there was only the truth, and facing his judgment now, he would have died rather than admit he was conspiring against the Templars.

He was let go abruptly and his face met the ground, too fearful to realize his hands had been bound behind his back. With a few embarrassingly clumsy movements, he managed to roll over and kick himself up into a sitting position. He stared up at the Templars.

Shaking, he opened his mouth to speak, but held it for a moment. They waited.

"I was there when the flag went up in flames," he admitted.

"Your wounds, bruised along your right side, if I am correct. From your fall from the roof?"

Conrad forsook his inhibitions in a desperate bid to survive. "I was lost, Master," he groaned. "So lost in this world without light, where killers roam the streets freely, and the people walk ignorant and complacent. Could my Lord blame me for feeling doubt in a world where nothing seems true?"

A long, tense moment followed in which the figured considered him carefully. Heads turned slightly, curiously. Finally, one stepped forward. "We are not without mercy, Siege Lord. Your choices are simple, then."

Figures in the background moved to reveal the source of the dim light and the soft crackling sound that Conrad had scarcely noticed: a brazier alive with burning embers. The color drained from Conrad's face.

"Commit to us, as you should have been from the beginning-" he then gestured to the brazier, "-or die."

Left with no other option, Conrad bowed his head once again. "I submit myself to you," he said, "and pledge my loyalty."

With the glimmer of the firelight shining its fullest, Conrad could swear he saw the Master's lips tugged into a smirk. "Well said."

Conrad was jerked back again as the man behind him clutched his neck again, holding him in an iron grip. Panic blossomed anew.

"However," a figure near the fire said, his voice low and dangerous, "No bad deed goes unpunished, no sin forsaken. Penance is necessary." He pulled the iron rod from the coals, glowing red with tendrils of stream drifting menacingly from its surface.

As the figure approached him slowly, Conrad struggled futilely against the grip on his neck, but he remained rooted to the spot as the crimson rod was pressed against his skin.


	6. 06

Conrad stood just outside of the gates of the battlements, a frown gracing his clean-shaven and well-kept face. His hair had been cut, his eyes bright and young with several night's worth of deep sleep. His wounds, hidden under his clothes, were treated and bandaged. _No harm done, _they basically said. He let them treat him, heal his wounds, pat him on the head like a disciplined child.

He convinced the Masters that the proper way to evade the assassin's wrath and plan their next assault was to treat the city in the way the assassins did not expect. That was to say, _well._ Withhold from them not their food, or their homes, or their families. The Masters relented, perhaps because they thought him hopelessly merciful and incompetent and merely sought to appease him, but they cared little for his feelings. Regardless of the reason, they allowed him his vision to an extent.

He carried his tasks out, however, with a perpetual grimace. Garrick gave him sideways glances at every other moment simply because the Siege Lord had stopped confiding in him.

Looking over his city every morning, Conrad felt unlike himself. He was numb; no longer afraid of the assassin nor the Templars. It seemed he had grown up by years in just a few short days. His father would be... _Proud_.

From the Siege Lord's side, his attendant demanded his attention. "Liege... A letter from Isabella. She wishes you to return to Cyprus for a reunion, and perhaps dinner." Garrick smiled.

Conrad looked down, away from his city. "I cannot leave now, when the end is so near."

The smile faded from his attendant's face. "What-"

"Tell the dockworkers to secure half of the shipments from the east today and place it in the battlements," Conrad began, adjusting the bracers he wore on his wrists. "The spices and silk I have kept in the western warehouse should remain there for a fortnight, along with whatever else we have requisitioned from the people." He thought for a moment. "That should give me enough time to travel to Masyaf."

"Masyaf!" Garrick gasped. "I thought you had washed your hands of any business with the assassin."

"Wash my hands of one evil to trade for another is not something I would do. Nor something I could live with."

"So this," Garrick gestured to all around them, "This was just another act?"

"In order to survive, one must practice moderation, tact, and a significant amount of cunning. I am merely biding our time." The Siege Lord smiled curtly.

They watched in silence as guards patrolled around them in repeating patterns like debris drifting through the ocean of citizens that flooded the marketplaces and streets. Conrad was unable to keep his eyes off of the Templar knights who hovered at regular intervals throughout the city per the request of the Masters.

_Wolves in sheeps' clothing._ Conrad narrowed his eyes.

"Your old schemes have resurfaced, then?" Garrick asked.

"They never sank." Turning to his attendant, Conrad grew more serious. "I go to Masyaf alone, Garrick. I need you to remain in Acre and carry out the tasks I have just given you, among others."

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow. The sooner I leave, the sooner I return and this city will see a new era."

The Templar knights tilted their obscured faces towards the two, but only out of idle curiosity. Conrad turned to meet their gaze evenly and they looked away. He was still their commanding officer on these streets.

"Tonight, however," Conrad said, leaning in, gaze still lingering on the knights, "I attend dinner with Phillip."

"Phillip? He still lives in Acre?"

"Still, he does, and he would be a valuable ally."

"Can you trust him?"

Conrad waved him off with a scoff. "Of course. He has been my friend for years."

* * *

The moon was full when Conrad left the home of the Bishop Phillip with a full stomach and a light heart. They had discussed matters of art, politics, love, and whatever else the drinks had provoked. Conrad spoke of his birthplace in Italy, where the green fields were unending, and of the friends he had made before politics entered his life. Phillip spoke of France, his home before Acre, but mostly of the food and the women.

Conrad's men hovered by the doorway, deep in a light conversation as they waited for their Lord to finish his business.

Garrick crouched in an adjacent alleyway, a narrow section between two homes dissected midway by a low wall. His back was to the wall, his eyes scanned the door to Phillip's home, and he was obscured by shadows. He had taken every precaution to ensure the Templar knights had not followed or that he would not be taken by surprise. The nights in Acre were cold, so being without his gloves, Garrick breathed into his cupped hands and rubbed them together, trying to keep himself warm as he waited for the Siege Lord to leave. There was another feeling he had. He was uneasy, though he could not pinpoint precisely why. It was as though he was being watched and at the same time he knew they were not; he had scouted the area beforehand and several times during. Garrick eventually shook it off as a faulty premonition due to the cold and returned his concentration to the door.

Finally, the door open and Conrad stepped out with a cackle. "Good night, my friend!" he called to the room behind him and waved. He stumbled past the guards, clumsy but not quite drunk. "Come, men. Let us return to the battlements."

Garrick had been ordered to scout the area before flanking them, so he ambled away as Conrad and his escorts walked to where a small church sat on the edge of Acre's middle district.

The group stopped, at Conrad's behest. "Wait," he wheezed. Unbearable pain began to weave throughout his body, every heartbeat more feeble than the last. He put a hand to his chest and struggled to breathe. "No..." he whispered.

There was a choking sound to his left, as one of his guards fell to his knees, his hands going to the knife in his neck as he began spitting blood. Immediately, blades were drawn. The other men whirled in every direction, bringing up their swords as they moved to shield the Siege Lord.

It was far too late for him, however, and he knew it.

His men fell around him, knives piercing their necks and hearts, their legs kicking as they struggled to resist death, but they soon fell still, blood seeping from their wounds.

Conrad had fallen to his knees, one hand clutching his chest, the other pressed against his temple. Black stars glittered in his eyesight, a swimming sensation overcoming him. Alarmingly still, his legs grew numb. Amidst his dying response, his survival instinct flared like a fire, and with what remained of his movement, drew his own sword and turned on the spot, barely parrying an attack from behind.

"You," he growled, caught between anger and a feeling of awe. The belt, the red cloth, the shape of the hood; they were all unmistakable.

The assassin jumped back, moving into a defensive position and sparing the Siege Lord not a word.

Shoving aside the urge to simply lean back and give up, Conrad pushed himself up with his sword as a crutch. He planted his feet firmly apart and brought up his own weapon in front of him, his eyes unfocusing and focusing several times before settling into a state of near-clarity. "Come, then." Something about the way the words left his mouth gave him the impression that he had slurred them or had said them too quietly for the assassin to register. Regardless, the assassin rushed him.

A surge of adrenaline aided him in gauging the assassin's abilities, for but a small window of clear cognition would exist before he would grow tired again. The poison was working quickly. Under an onslaught of flurry attacks, Conrad realized the assassin was far too skilled to be bested. With Conrad's gradually crippling state, he would be lucky to remain alive for a full minute.

He brought up his sword and the following parry reverberated along the hilt and up his arm. Switching arms did little good. The next attack brought him down, flat on his back.

His blade was well out of reach, even as he struggled to simply wrap his fingers around the hilt. If he could just... Reach it...

The breath was forced out of him as the assassin dug his knee into his chest, the hidden blade jumping from the cuffs of his robe.

Then, darkness.


	7. 07

All around him was endless white. Conrad was on his back on an ivory surface. The blood from his wound was gone, however he was still dying. There was no pain, no confusion. There was only a sense of intrigue that one might find themselves with when they lose their way; a unfamiliar path in a familiar place, no urgency or fear, just a sense of complacency and the compulsion to move forward.

Then, another man was there, hovering above him, in the process of laying him back gently, one hand cradling his neck, the other under his shoulders. It was an oddly gentle gesture, a sign of compassion that Conrad struggled to reconcile with the face of his murderer.

"You..." He rasped. "Finally."

The assassin smirked, but not unkindly. His was a knowing smile. "Any last words, Templar?" He pulled his hands away from the Siege Lord.

"I am no Templar,_ assassin_."

"The son of William de Montferrat, to whom I also spoke in this manner." He looked puzzled.

Conrad could not suppress his bitter laugh. "And what did he say to you? That I was unfit to follow in his footsteps? Perhaps even to wipe my own ass?"

"Yes... So why-"

Suddenly, Conrad was on his feet once more, walking towards the assassin's back with only peaceful intent. "Richard had not known about the Templars. I heard about the circumstances under which Robert de Sable finally met his end. Was the king's surprise genuine?"

The assassin turned away from the body and faced the ghost of Conrad. "I believe so. Why else would he allow me to kill the Grand Master of the Templars?"

"Exactly." Then, as though he had only just noticed it, Conrad stepped to the side and stared at the body that rested beneath the assassin. A wave of unease passed within him, but he quickly recovered, accepting it. It was his body and he was dead. "Why have you come for me? I treated the city well even as the Templars' _all-seeing _gaze pressed down upon me at all times."

"I seek vengeance for my fallen." The assassin fixed the Siege Lord with a cold, accusing stare.

Conrad found it near impossible to recall his life past the few moments before his death. His memory seemed blocked by an immovable wall, a substance thick as honey. With great effort, he pressed through slowly. "What happened to your men was not my doing." He placed his fingers against his temple and concentrated. "The few who died were killed by my men as I slept, and the survivor who made it back to Masyaf was, admittedly, another pawn in my fruitless attempts to deceive the Templars."

"No survivor ever reached our fortress. We found him dead on a road in the mountains."

Conrad cursed. If the assassin was well enough to begin walking, to make his way through the mountains, then his death could not have been caused by the injuries he sustained in the battlements. Though there remained a few possibilities, Conrad knew it had to be the work of his Masters. "My condolences," the Siege Lord offered, but despite how genuine he felt, the uselessness of the words seemed the only thing to reach the assassin's ears.

The assassin glanced up and away.

The Siege Lord felt restless. Eager to be done with this limbo business, he tried to avert back to his original subject. "Did you see my message?"

"The fires that nearly ravaged the cathedral?" The assassin rested an arm on his knee, gave Conrad a teasing gesture. "I may have missed it."

Conrad pursed his lips. "It began as a burning Templar flag."

"I saw it, as well as your re-initiation into the Templar Order. Your false act of rebellion failed to fool me, Conrad."

"So, you continued to hunt me. How could you be so sure that my loyalty to the Templars was true?"

The assassin waved him closer to his body. Conrad walked up until he towered over them both, watching as the assassin pulled up his tunic, and revealed a horrendous scar. In the shape of a Templar cross. "Why else would you go through the pain of initiation?" the assassin asked thoughtfully.

Conrad put a hand to his stomach. He had not remembered receiving it after he died, but retained the memory of the pain it had caused him, the constant burning that existed even after the wound had been treated. "To fool _them_." He recalled more. "But it failed as well. Had you not taken my life, they would have. I was poisoned and already moments from death when you engaged me."

"A pity."

"Quite. I planned to ride to Masyaf tomorrow."

"You would have been met with a knife to your back."

"I doubt it. Seeing a Templar approach your fortress – alone and mostly unarmed – would pique your curiosity too much. You would not only feel the need to discover why I risked my life to seek you out, but also crave to take my life yourself."

The assassin narrowed his eyes. "Why do this? Why risk yourself?"

The Siege Lord looked again to his body, the way his head had tilted to the side, lifeless. His dark eyes had grown dense and milky. "After Sibrand met his own demise, I learned from one of the Templar masters of what they planned to do with the world." Conrad paused, his eyes never leaving his body. "They are madmen. What they wish is not freedom from violence and persecution, but freedom from ourselves and unique thought. Once I learned this, I could not simply stand by and let it happen.

"As far as I knew, you and your assassins were the only men taking action against this totalitarian threat. I grew weary of feigning loyalty to a cause I had been brought up learning to follow without question. I sought your help because I knew no other way to truly begin to save my people."

The assassin considered this, turning his hooded head away from the Siege Lord and his body, looking off into the endless white. "It seems I was wrong about you, then." He leaned down to close Conrad's eyes, but his wrist was suddenly caught by the ghost's grip.

"Not yet, assassin. I have a few requests to ask of you before I truly leave this world." Conrad leaned down, staying the assassin's final gesture.

"Asking _me_ for favors? You may not be a Templar, but you do possess their arrogance." The assassin smirked and waved a hand over his shoulder. "Say what you must, while you still have the time to do so."

Conrad released his grip and moved behind the assassin. "My thanks," he began. "Do not take the Templars as fools. I have heard what transpired at the fortress, so you are aware that not all subjects are like their masters." At this, the assassin flinched almost imperceptibly. "Watch them, kill them, and replace me with someone you trust; make certain my people, who were so for but a small amount of time, are well taken care of.

"My beloved, Isabella, resides in Cyprus. Please, send her a letter detailing the truth of my demise. If you can, provide her with asylum. It is by no fault of hers that I have put her life in danger.

"Finally, my attendant. He is a man from Syria, taken from his home by my father and given to me as a slave as a young boy. He has, however, grown up as my closest friend. Surely even someone as yourself can understand the bond a man has with someone whom he has grown up with."

"Yes. What about him?" the assassin asked with some trepidation.

"He is a remarkable young man. Capable, smart, honest. He does not deserve to be abandoned in this city without my protection."

"What would you have me do, exactly?"

"Give him a chance."

The assassin laughed, a frightening sound from a man so used to death. "I would have never expected such unselfish concern for another from a man such as yourself. Your man, then, if I can grant these last wishes of yours, how will I know which Syrian he is in this vast city?"

A smile spread across the Siege Lord's face. "Oh, you will know." He felt a tug and a wave of exhaustion pass through him, a great desire to fall asleep and not wake up. He felt there were mere moments before he would get just that.

The assassin pulled him from his reverie. "I still do not understand. You could have saved your own life, you could have acted with discretion, but still you chose the path that you did, and you do not seem to regret any of it even as you lie here dead."

There was little time. "I know not your age or your experience, but trust me when I say this: Your greatest victories will not be the ones handed to you, but the ones that you suffer for, that you would die for."

With another short laugh, the assassin leaned down and let his hand hover above the Siege Lord's eyes. "I am disappointed that it had to end this way, Conrad."

Conrad stepped forward and placed a ghost hand on the assassin's shoulder. "As am I, _assassino._" It echoed through the vast nothingness.

Altaïr turned back, startled, and found no one behind him. There was only a cold, unliving body at his feet, over which his slightly trembling hand still lingered. With a shake of his head, he finally ran his fingers over the body's eyes to close them. Then, the world around him collapsed.


	8. 08

As he stood, Altaïr immediately felt the unmistakable sensation of imminent danger. Quick as a snake, he spun and threw out his foot, catching his attacker in the stomach and knocking him out of the air mid-flight. The young man hit the ground hard and rolled into an unmoving bundle.

Without a moment's time to catch his breath, the attacker was pulled to his feet and pressed against a wall, held aloft by his neck. The copper-skinned young man struggled to free himself, fingers prying at the hand around his neck.

"You look Syrian," Altaïr observed quietly. "Are you the man I was supposed to look out for?"

"Release me!" the Syrian croaked, his hands slipping uselessly from the assassin's steady grip.

Altaïr smirked. "You are weak."

The struggling began anew, the Syrian nearly enraged by the accusation. "Only compared to you!" he snapped. The assassin smiled. The boy may have had a pitiful past, but his backbone remained intact. Maybe his pretense about the slave was wrong.

The pain in his groin reached him before he had even noticed the Syrian strike. With his free hand, the assassin wrenched himself away and to the side, suppressing the urge to make a sound. He kept his grip firm, though any further attempts the Syrian may have to free himself were limited now that the assassin was not in front of him. "Clever," he said through clenched teeth. "Tell me why you attacked me."

In lieu of a verbal response, the Syrian reached behind his back and pulled a knife he had hidden there. He struck out, arcing it towards the assassin's face, but came up but an inch too short.

Altaïr jerked back, at the same time taking the man's arm in his free hand and twisting it against his back. The knife dropped to the ground. Within another brief moment, the assassin had pinned him to the ground, one knee planted in the middle of his back.

He leaned down, his voice lowered to a predatory whisper. "Tell me your name, then."

Between agonized groans as his arm was pushed upwards more and more to make him speak, he managed to spit out a few words. "Garrick! My name is Garrick! Let go of my arm!"

"Your _true _name, slave."

"I know not, Garrick has been my name for so long!"

"Liar." He applied pressure on the arm again. Any more and he may dislocate the shoulder, but he knew what limits he could push to. As it was he had already pulled the nerves, put it under too much tension and had probably rendered it too painful to move.

Garrick struggled further, frustrated. He smacked his forehead on the cool stone street to distract himself from the pain, tried to shake his head. There was no answer that would satisfy the assassin, so he merely cried out until the grip on his arm went slack. With his shoulder throbbing, nearly numb, there was no way he could defend himself, much less attack. He let his head fall to the side.

Just a few feet away, the Siege Lord was still and turning blue, the rivulet of blood from his neck slowing to a faint trickle. Garrick sighed, but his rage was renewed. With a cry, Garrick twisted around until he could move his arms effectively. The assassin had already gotten to his feet, taken a step back from the flailing Syrian, and watched as the man realized his arm was utterly useless.

"You bastard!" Garrick slammed a fist against the ground. The assassin quirked an eyebrow. "He would have saved this city!"

"Your charge was a dead man before I laid a hand on him. Trust me," Altaïr said. He extended a hand – the hand that would complement Garrick's good arm – and offered to pull the man to his feet. The gesture was sincere, but suspicion still lingered. The slave for the man he had tried and failed to kill, and the assassin who was doubtful that momentary adrenaline would fail to best his skills. Regardless, Garrick took the hand and was hauled to his feet.

"What do you mean?" He asked, already cradling his sprained arm.

Altaïr silenced him with a gesture. "Later. Garrick, you said?" With an affirmative nod, he continued. "Conrad mentioned you. You... are clumsy and brash, but you have spirit, and loyalty. A chance to prove yourself is the least you deserve."

Garrick watched him carefully. The hand that had helped him to his feet now held out a feather. The Syrian clutched it and held it close.

"Begin with the man that poisoned your master."

Garrick, who had stared at the feather and then to his master's body, glanced back, alarmed. "Who-"

But the master assassin had vanished.


	9. 09

The Master stood in the assassin's graveyard, a small plot of land just below the fortress, tucked deep in their territory. Aside from the fortress itself, the graveyard was a site the assassins protected with utmost zeal.

After looking over the headstones, Altaïr ran a hand over his face. He was thoroughly exhausted with the day's burden – the new addition to the small cemetery. They would eventually have to expand, he thought, though the majority of the headstones belonged to men whose bodies could not be recovered and whose stones were packed together more tightly. He grimaced at the newest stone. He had broken a sacred tradition by allowing it, but...

"Master."

Altaïr tensed imperceptibly. The slave had genuinely startled him. Though he began to pass it off as mere, uncharacteristic aloofness, he had to give Garrick his credit. Stealth, perhaps, he would learn quickly. The assassin straightened himself. "Welcome back."

Garrick, still clad in the clothes he wore days before, stared at the Master with cold, half-lidded eyes. He stood with a lethargic teeter, but he stood. Altaïr expected him to fail outright.

They stared at one another. Garrick broke away first, reached into his shirt and withdrew the bloodied feather. "How do you keep it from staining your robes?" he asked as he handed the feather to Altaïr.

Smiling, the assassin waved the feather. "You wait until it dries."

The color of Garrick's face darkened. "Right," he mumbled. Then, as his gaze lowered, he noticed the headstone that Altaïr was so lost in moments before. A smile broke out from his weathered features, formed from authentic delight. He strode over and knelt by the marker, ran his hand over the sandy stone. "He would have liked this," he said. "Thank you for allowing it; I doubted you would."

"I recalled watching as he berated Sibrand on the docks. I went to his chambers in the battlements and found his notes, some letters. I overheard the conversations of his men, the duties they were mysteriously left before Conrad left for the night – Proof enough that he intended to gain our support and use it against the Templars, but preparing in the case that he died. I interrogated a Knight, who told me everything."

Garrick stood, taking his hand off Conrad's gravestone to stand before Altaïr.

"Evidence enough to prove he was a man of good intentions, and by extension, you – a man we can trust."

Altaïr held out his hand, which Garrick grasped confidently. Abruptly, the assassin turned his hand over, revealing his own missing finger and observing Garrick's wholly intact hand. He looked as though he was about to say something, but instead he let go of the novice's hand with a thoughtful sound. "Welcome to the Order, Garrick."

Garrick beamed at the Master calling him by his name for the first time. He put a hand to his heart and bowed slightly.

"Is this where you have been wasting your time?"

They turned. Just a few feet away, a young, dark-haired man stood, glaring at Altaïr. Garrick was distressed in noticing the man was missing an arm, his sleeve pinned up to the shoulder. His other hand was planted against his hip.

"Malik," Altaïr greeted.

"I need you back in the study, Altaïr. I am sick of looking at _it_." The man called Malik smirked sportively and Altaïr returned the gesture.

"As am I," he said, "But I will return to it soon."

"And who is this?" Malik gestured to Garrick and turned his stony gaze upon him.

Garrick wanted to shrink underneath his gaze, but a hand met his shoulder, and the assassin next to him gave him a sympathetic pat.

"Oh," said Altaïr, "Just the companion of a...A good Templar."

Malik arched an eyebrow, frowning. The words were true enough, but unbelievable to any assassin – Garrick could be sure of that – except for the moment after, when this armless man smiled and shook his head and seemed to trust Altaïr's word completely.

"You always make such strange friends, novice."

* * *

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you haven't done so up to this point, I'd love to hear feedback. I always love to get reviews.


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